Black berrys charm the snake;
And wait for new Comings, by day.
More the pale hands, with each dawn.
Green thorned vines, fair ankles entwine.
Black eyes, conceal the fruit not ripe picked;
Musky servant amongst dark leaves unseen.
Innocence trips over, one full basket left to cover.
While voices plan new paths through the thorns.
e.d
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